


smoke and mirrors

by Nebbles



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emetophobia, Gen, Horror, Mild Gore, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25694419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebbles/pseuds/Nebbles
Summary: “Ah.” Lukas? Is that Lukas? “You’re awake, Alm. How good of you to join us.”It’s Lukas, but he sounds different. His inflection is steady as always, but there’s a chill underneath that rushes down Alm’s spine and seizes it.-The horrors of war comes in many shapes and forms, but betrayal is the worst of them all, its sting sharper than any lance.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23
Collections: Calamity's Advent





	smoke and mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> This was my second piece for Calamity's Advent, a horror/angst zine which you can check out here: https://twitter.com/InvincibleZine/status/1290290668787695616?s=20
> 
> This was inspired by the fun idea of Duma Faithful!Lukas and how that'd be. :) Enjoy!

The Dragon’s Maw smells of sulfur, and it hangs thick and heavy in the hot air that sears Alm’s lungs. It also carries the scent of rotting meat that accompanies the frenzied screeches of each Necrodragon that falls to the burning lands with a  _ squelch,  _ a sound that turns the meager rations in his stomach. Sweat blinds his vision, a sharp swing of his blade led by instinct, of a desire to not have his corpse join the dragons they are to leave in their wake. 

Damp, warm fabric clings to his skin, uncomfortable as it threatens to hinder his ability to breathe. Each ragged breath feels of fire as the taste of spoiled meat dances upon his tongue, and nearly causes Alm to vomit. He misses the cold air of Rigel, its somehow familiar comforts that blankets him in a soft land of mornings tipped with frost. 

It’s as if his armor has binded itself to his body. It constricts his movements; it makes his lungs feel fit to burst as more hot air threatens to burn them where he stands. 

Another roar of a dragon melts into the sweltering heat. It sounds the same as the many before it, stuttered and hoarse, as if the creature’s vocal chords peel away with each cry. 

The cacophony burns its way into Alm’s memory.

It’s this that drives him to fall to his knees as this throat burns, perhaps hotter than this godsdamned crater as he coughs up his breakfast. 

The sickness is somehow louder than the cries of battle, the guttural growls of the fallen. Its smell does not overrun the overwhelming rot, the sulfur, and it’s the only thing Alm can be thankful for. He feels no resistance as he drives the tip of his blade into the cracked, dry earth as he attempts to balance himself against the scorching steel as painful, dry wheezes leave his throat.

He tries to breathe. Each haggard gasp cracks his lungs and fills them with ash. Alm’s throat is coarse, lined with scorching sands that reside in Valentia’s hottest deserts.

A hand finds its way to his shoulder, and nearly causes him to collapse once more. 

“I can lead us to safety,” the voice says, and it feels foreign, “I have found us a way out of here.”

He’s delirious, and cannot match a face to the voice. All he offers is a weak nod, a shaky hand to reach the one upon his shoulder.

Through the thick haze lies a gaze Alm normally regards as friendly.

He does not see what truly lies behind it.

* * *

  
  


Alm discovers that he’s lost the blessing of vision. 

A good soldier, a leader, needs their eyes to watch over the battlefield and men to ensure their survival. If they are blinded, they are nothing more than dead weight. Useless, and to be left behind, forgotten as if they never existed in the first place.

The cloth around his face is itchy. Heavy and damp, and it carries an odor of must and copper.

Cool air prickles at his face now, the still damp clothing clawing into his skin in a discomforting manner. He tries to move, and feels binding on his wrists. Is it the same fabric that obscures his vision? He isn’t sure, the furthered uncertainty causes sweat to trickle down the back of his neck.

He attempts to cry out, to call for his friends, but only a wheeze leaves his throat, and leaves the bitter aftertaste of bile on his tongue.

“Ah.” Lukas? Is that Lukas? “You’re awake, Alm. How good of you to join us.”

It’s Lukas, but he sounds different. His inflection is steady as always, but there’s a chill underneath that rushes down Alm’s spine and seizes it. 

The only sound in the room there is to hear is steady breathing, which matches the uneasy rhythm of his heart. Something is off; he does not hear the comments or quips of his friends, or any words indicating they are well. 

He swallows, and it barely helps in assuaging the cracks in his throat. “W...where…”

“You wish to know where we are?” Alm just nods, unable to offer much else. “It’s a rather simple answer. We are located at the base of Duma’s Tower.”

Even if Alm was able to speak, he knows words would fail him here. No answer his mind supplies can offer logic as to why they’re in such a terrible place. Why has Lukas taken them here? 

“Lukas.” There’s another voice. Clive. Maybe Clive will get them to safety, and he can take the Deliverance back. Clive’s better than he is; Clive wouldn’t have foolishly led them into a land of misery and rot. “Explain yourself.”

Footsteps. The scraping of rusty metal as it creaks and groans over stone. A sharp intake of breath follows, perhaps a gasp of fear.

“You were always an easy one to fool. Did you never think that the Deliverance carried an infiltrator?”

Alm’s blood runs cold. No.

_ No.  _

“How long?” Clive’s voice carries a quiet fury. Betrayal. Hurt. “ _ Why? _ ”

“Lord Duma has been a part of our family for some time.” Lukas’ tone does not waver. Alm finds it terribly chilling. “To my father and stepbrother, his power was nothing more than something to further their greed. Desire is such an interesting trait, isn’t it?” 

Lukas was never his friend. 

Alm’s heart begins to crack and shrivel.

“I suppose it’s rather fortunate how easy I faded into the background. How Forsyth and Python spent more time with one another, how you and Mathilda saw it prudent to flirt while driving your lances in the hearts of Rigelian soldiers…” It’s the most he’s heard Lukas speak. He wants it to  _ stop.  _ “Your foolishness was my fortune.” 

“And how long have you been stringing us along as such?” Clive’s voice wavers at the end as he takes a sharp intake of air. Is Lukas threatening him? ...Does Lukas even resemble himself at the moment, or is he defined by sickly purple skin and hollow eyes?

“Since the very beginning. I was never on your side.” A sharp hiss cracks the cool air in the room. “Now, now, Python. You are not the one I’m speaking to at the moment. Wait your turn.”

“Like I’ll let you lay a hand on me.” Python’s angry too. The lackadaisical tone Alm’s grown to appreciate (in some odd way) in his tone is gone. “Never think you’d be the kind to sink this low.”

Forsyth’s voice always follows. 

Except this time, it  _ doesn’t.  _

Alm isn’t sure what this means. 

“Think about what you’re doing, Lukas!” Clive’s yelling now. “Would you really damn this entire army? Zofia needs us -- Valentia needs us to free it from Rigel’s clutches.”

“I thought you would enjoy seeing me so driven.” There’s silence. Maybe Clive is glaring at Lukas. Maybe he’s looking at him with further betrayal. Fear? Sadness? “Although, I remember you addressing me in a rather interesting manner.

  
  
“Lukas--!”

“Not much of a cold observer now, am I?” Alm hears the horrifying scrape of a lance pierces through worn metal, the cry of flesh rending intermingling with a wet, gasping cough. Clive’s bones pop and splinter, their cracks reverberating in his ears. What follows is ragged rasps, the sound of someone choking on their own blood before it's vomited onto the floor. “It was so very easy to fool you, Clive. No wonder you were ill fit to lead the Deliverance.” 

Forsyth screams. Python lets out a colorful string of words. 

Alm’s never heard Forsyth cry before.

The thump of a dead man’s body echoes its way through wherever they are. 

"Lord Duma only takes those who are worthy. Your incompetent leadership would prove shameful." Lukas sounds too casual, too uncaring of a man who just robbed someone of their life. "I hope that is a proper display of what rejecting his power entails. I hope the rest of you do not follow in his foolishness, and heed a higher calling."

There's footsteps, and then silence. Terrible, cloying silence that makes Alm's blood run cold. Silence that begs for Alm to sob over Clive's death. Silence that he wishes Python or Forsyth or anyone would fill. Yet, the only thing Alm can will himself to do is not dry heave onto the floor. 

Is this his fault? Did he never once question Lukas' skill in battle as nothing else, that his talent was earned and not bequeathed upon him by a mad god? Alm knows Lukas has spent endless years fighting, and to think... 

Alm just isn't sure what else to think. All that's apparent to him is Clive's corpse upon the floor, wetting it with his blood and entrails (something makes a noise, it’s wet, what else could it  _ be _ ), is due to his own shortcomings.

He isn't good enough. He's still the same unskilled boy who stepped out of Ram Village with too many dreams, too headstrong, too ignorant of what horrors would curl around him. The deaths of their normal soldiers, faces he still was trying to learn -- those are enough to hurt. 

And now it's the faces of people he knows. If he doesn't submit, will Lukas continue to off them, one by one? Who will he choose to offer to Duma? Who is worthy of losing their sense of self, of becoming a husk who only knows death?

_ What would you do, Celica? Would you blame me too?  _

If he gives up, he'll never see her again. He'll die before getting to tell Celica he loves her, he's sorry, he's such a fool for fighting with her.

Their last words are to be a fight, and Alm feels every regret shackle him to the ground.

If he refuses to give up, his friends may die too. Gray and Tobin will never return to their families. Kliff never gets to explore the world with his special brand of curiosity and knowledge. Faye will die because she's made the error of following him, and she'll die hating him and it's  _ his fault, his fault, his fault, his fault, his fault.  _

If he lets Lukas take him, and his friends live, they'll tell him he's a coward. That he's better than this. That this isn't the Alm to follow. 

No matter the options, and there's very few, they all end at the same fate, which is the death of the foolish farm boy with dreams that dared to reach the stars.

Despite the dryness in his throat, how his head throbs with every exhalation, Alm curls into the corner of this unknown room and weeps.

He’s never been so afraid for the future. 

Valentia will fall to the flames, and it’s  _ his fault, his fault, his fault, all his fault... _

* * *

  
  


Alm isn’t sure how long he’s been here. Days, weeks, perhaps somewhere on the scale of a few hours to years. Among the other things he’s lost, his sense of time withers and crumbles into dust. 

It’s quiet. 

How many people are left? Did they choose to be silent when Lukas took them away, so as to not rupture his ear drums with their screams? 

Still, Alm is unable to see. Has the fabric of the blindfold fused with his body? Has Lukas gouged out his eyes? 

He isn’t sure.

The fabric on his hands has worn raw, fingers picking through dirtied threads, through skin. He can’t even feel the pain anymore. The air doesn’t sting like it used to.

It’s been so long. He misses his friends. He misses Grandpapa. He misses home.

He misses Celica.

"Cel... Celica..." Her name leaves Alm's lips in a hoarse whisper, as if uttering her name will offer her protection, a spell to keep her from harm's way.

"She shall be Lord Duma's finest witch." A kick to the stomach is kinder than the reply he hears from Lukas. "Don't you agree, Alm?"

“If you acquiesce, I will let you see your friends again.” They’re all dead. The husks that Lukas has turned them into are nothing but a cruel facsimile of their memory. “You will be able to see Celica. Is that your not greatest desire, Alm? I do know you detest feeling alone.”

The macabre symphony of their cries crescendos in Alm’s mind, their staccato final breaths begging for mercy, for life before being cast to the flames. The smell of burnt flesh hangs in the air like a thick fog; it coats Alm’s throat with a layer of cinders. He’s thankful, for once, to have lost his vision. He does not see their skin melted from brittle and black bones, charred by hellfire, paving a path to so-called glory. 

That’s what he imagines them to look like, at the very least. It’s possibly better than a sickly purple painting their skin.

Lukas will let him  _ see.  _ Maybe everything’s an illusion. He still doesn’t understand the horrors of dark magic. Maybe his friends are okay, and they just want him, the boy of destiny. 

Yet he’ll never know if he remains silent.

Alm gives his answer.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, make sure to leave a comment/kudos! If you want to hear about future works and rambles, make sure to follow me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/that_nebbles)


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